


The Sculptress and the Prince

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Prince Fëanáro comes into her life, Nerdanel finds him strange but intriguing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sculptress and the Prince

Nerdanel pushed open the door of her studio absently, her thoughts elsewhere. She thought perhaps she would work in clay today, and make some models as a test for a new marble sculpture that had been slowly taking shape in her mind, its form growing clearer by the day. In her studio, she could shut herself away from the everyday life of the household, away from the whole world if she wanted to. She was smiling a little at the prospect, but the smile soon fell from her lips, when she realised that there was someone else there, a dark-haired figure with his back to her. No, this wasn’t right. Her studio was _her_ place, _her_ refuge, everyone in the household understood that, or learned to very quickly. When people came in and looked at her unfinished work without her permission it felt… intrusive. Too personal. It made her prickly and nervous. She pressed her lips together in annoyance, and spoke to the stranger, her words harsh and loud, even to her own ears.

“Who are _you_? What do you want?”

He turned, clearly startled. He must not have heard her come in. He had been running his hand over one of her unfinished sculptures, feeling the texture of the marble, which still had a rough finish since she had abandoned it to begin something new. But when he heard her voice, he drew his hand back suddenly, guiltily. It was almost as if he _knew._

“I… I apologise, my lady. I did not realise that you would be back so soon. Not that that excuses… I mean… I’m a friend of your father’s and I was… he said he had a daughter who was a sculptor, and I was just curious to see your work. My name is Curufinwë Fëanáro.” he added, as if as an afterthought.

Her frown deepened. She _did_ know who he was, now. Her father had been in regular correspondence with the young prince for some time now, and there were no end of rumours flying around among the apprentices, and among her sisters and cousins. Prince Fëanáro was a prodigy. Prince Fëanáro was the most handsome in all the land. That he had a fiery temper. That he had run away from home, or, in some versions, that he had been forced to leave the palace in disgrace. That he was going to become Mahtan’s apprentice. This last, her father dispelled with a booming laugh and a good-natured wave of his hand, saying that they were both simply apprentices of Aulë. But still the rumours persisted. As a general principle, she found them all extremely boring, and had very little regard for either princes or prodigies.

He seemed to collect himself a little. But she stood in the doorway with her arms folded and her lips pursed. Seeing that she was going to let him do the explaining, he began again.

“I am truly sorry, Lady Nerdanel. I was just visiting your father, and I was passing your studio and curiosity overcame me.” He smiled apologetically. “I had not seen you around the house, and I thought you were away. But believe me when I say, I know that feeling, when you find someone who has no right has been poking around your unfinished designs. And you have been much calmer and more accepting than I would be in the same situation. I was half expecting you to throw a heavy object at me, and I probably would have been most deserving of it.”

There was a short silence. Nerdanel stood there glowering, trying to work out what this Fëanáro wanted. She felt a little uneasy. She could usually read people rather easily, but he was strange to her. Opaque. She stared at his face, trying to work out what lay behind those sharp grey eyes. The way he had been running his hand over the marble, almost _lovingly_ … it reminded her of someone, although she was not sure who. Unexpectedly, she felt herself not entirely inclined to dislike him. There was something about him that was _other_ , and entirely alien to her everyday life. Although he was smiling neutrally she could see the potential for storm clouds to gather across his expressive features, for wrath, for sadness and great joy, possibly all at once. He would be a challenge to sculpt, she thought idly. His face was so alive, and she had a sudden desire to try to capture it in stone.

She knew she would regret getting into a conversation with him, but she was too curious. She set her face into a stiff smile. “So? What do you think?”

“I think…” he ran his palm over the rough marble again, considering her question. “I think it matters very little to you _what_ I think. But I also think that you should finish this.” He indicated the unfinished sculpture. “It shows promise. Although, this texture is rather beautiful too. Perhaps don’t polish it too much. Have you ever tried working with granite, rather than marble? I think your style would be well suited to it.”

She was a little taken aback. Usually, friends of her father’s regarded her as a curiosity, not as an artist. Their advice was mostly empty compliments, exclamations that she was such a clever girl, requests for a little stone bust portrait to put on the mantelpiece. He was… well she wasn’t quite sure _what_ he was, other than the fact that he was different. Suddenly, his voice broke in on her thoughts.

“This may sound odd, but would you mind… can I touch your hair? It’s a wonderful colour. Like beaten copper, only slightly more red, perhaps. I would like to know what its texture is like.” He spoke neutrally, his tone matter-of-fact, making it seem for all the world as if this was a completely unremarkable thing to say to someone when meeting them for the first time. Taking her silence for assent, he crossed the space between them, and slowly, cautiously, he clasped a tangled curl of her thick hair between his long, deft fingers. He held it delicately, as if it were some precious work of art, felt the texture, stared closely at how each strand reflected the light. He appeared completely absorbed, but, she noticed, he took care never to pull on her hair and hurt her. Finally he let the lock fall against her shoulder and stood back. He was smiling again.

“Thank you. Your hair is beautiful. I realise that sometimes I may seem a little… unconventional. But I hope I will see you again soon. And think about the granite.”

He walked out of the studio, leaving Nerdanel still standing inside the doorway, slightly unsure of what had just passed between them.

He returned often, after that. Fëanáro and Mahtan worked well together, it seemed, and he became a regular guest of the household, sometimes staying for a night or two. He would often visit Nerdanel, and they would discuss her work, and his, and art, and language, and the books they had been reading. She found, with no small amount of surprise, that he was someone she could easily talk to. And if Mahtan noticed any change in either of them, or the fact that Nerdanel now worked less often in marble and more in granite, he did not say anything about it. They rarely spoke about affairs at the palace, or the politics of Tirion. Nerdanel had little interest in such things, and Fëanáro seemed to positively relish the chance to avoid the topic.

One day, a letter came. The paper was fine, and it bore the seal of the king. An invitation for the whole family to attend a feast at the palace. The letter was oblique, impersonal. It was, of course, a great opportunity for their house, everyone seemed certain of that. Of course they would attend. Nerdanel felt a vague sense of foreboding, a flutter of nervousness, and something else that she couldn’t quite identify.

She spotted him immediately. He sat at the high table next to his father, on the other side from his stepmother. He was dressed in dark red velvet embroidered with heavy gold, and his hair was braided, for once. He normally left it loose, or bound it back with a cord while he was working, and the only clothes she had seen him in were old linen shirts and breeches, with the occasional burn mark. Suddenly she felt very uncultured. Who were all of these people surrounding them? Dignitaries? Politicians? Her father was deep in conversation with an old friend. But Fëanáro caught her eye, and grinned from across the room, rolling his eyes a little. It was enough, and her nervousness diminished slightly.

After the feast, he came to find her. She was sitting alone on a bench at the side of the hall. Her father was still talking, and her mother and sisters had gone, she supposed, to try to gain a foothold in high society, or some such thing. For herself, it was all rather too much. Her head swam a little from the wine at dinner, (the best she had ever tasted, of course) and it was hot and stuffy in the hall. He came and sat down beside her, and from his expression alone she could tell that he had quite as much distaste for this as she did. That sat like that for a while, in companionable silence. Eventually Nerdanel spoke.

“So, you decided to try to actually look like a prince for once?”

He laughed. “Do I detect that was a compliment?”

She was grinning now. “Well, I suppose you _could_ take it that way… if you really wanted to… I meant it more in the sense that I almost didn’t recognise you!”

“Really, you’re too kind, Nel, you’re too kind…”

Their laughter subsided.

“Fëanáro?”

“Yes?”

“Is this what it’s like? Your life, here at the palace. Do you do this sort of thing all the time? When you’re not with us, I mean.”

He considered this for a moment, before answering. “Well… yes. Mostly.” His mouth twisted into a smile again. “Isn’t it just _awful_?”

Relief flooded over her. “Why did you invite us here?”

Again he paused before answering. “I did not send the invitations. But my father has noticed that I spend a great deal of time with your family. He seems to think that your father is a good influence on me, which is entirely true, of course. He has become one of my dearest friends, and greatest mentors. But you…” he tailed off, as if unsure of what to say next. Or as if he had been going to say something, and then thought better of it.

“Yes?” she prompted. “What about me?”

He gave her a long, steady look, searching her face. Finally he spoke again. “One advantage of living in a palace,” he said “is that there is always some of the good wine left. What do you say to getting some from the cellars and going for a walk? I want to show you something.” He stood up and offered her his arm, with mock formality.

Nerdanel glanced at her father in the corner. He was still talking, and the conversation seemed to be getting louder and more animated. She would likely not be missed for a while.

“I would be delighted.”

They lay on their backs side by side, on the flat central part of the palace roof, passing the bottle of wine between them. It was quiet here, the voices from the hall below fading from their hearing as they had climbed through the trapdoor. Golden light spilled from the palace windows, but up here all was bathed in the shimmering silver of Telperion. It was late now. The night was warm and cloudless, and above them hung the vast glimmering tapestry of the stars. And they talked. They talked about his life, about his father and his mother, about his stepmother and his half-brothers and sisters, and life at the palace. About all the subjects he had avoided before. About how he longed to get out, to go travelling. He talked about the maps in the library, the places on their edges where he had never been. There was something in his voice when he spoke of them… she found herself wanting to see these places, and to come back and tell stories of her own. Eventually they subsided into silence again. The wine was gone now, and both were dizzy with it. She sat up, suddenly, her head spinning slightly.

“Fëanáro?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go there? You and I. Let’s go to all the places on the edges of the map.”

He sat up too. “That’s a lot of travelling.”

“I know. That’s precisely the point. And I thought you wanted to get away?”

“It’s not that simple…” he paused, looking at her sharply. “Actually, it is, isn’t it?”

Suddenly without either of them knowing quite how they had got there, their faces were inches apart. They found themselves leaning towards each other, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly their lips were meeting, clumsily crushed together in their urgency, their arms twined about each other. As they lay back on the hard surface of the palace roof, their world shrank down until it contained only the two of them. And each knew that, for now at least, it really was that simple.

 

 

 


End file.
